


Something Worth Waiting For

by smellyleaf



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF, usa swimming
Genre: First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Real Person Slash - Freeform, real person fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smellyleaf/pseuds/smellyleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael is saving himself for something, Ryan doesn't know what. Written for <a href="http://lyrics-soul.livejournal.com/10880.html?thread=1106816#t1106816">this prompt for Virgin!Michael</a> over @xxx.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Worth Waiting For

**Author's Note:**

> **[THIS WORK WAS IMPORTED FROM SMELLYFIC.LIVEJOURNAL.COM]**

There's no regrets. No, when you're Michael Phelps, regrets is the last thing you have time for.

You see, the whole thing was entirely Ryan Lochte's fault, from the very beginning. Because Michael was young, and virtuous and all that good stuff. And then Ryan Lochte came along and ruined it.

It started in Athens. His agent, Peter, had introduced them at the same time he'd introduced Michael to everybody else. Ryan Lochte was a frizzy-haired frat boy, from Michael's first impression. But later, on the deck between races, they'd actually talked. He'd come to discover that Ryan was an interesting person, with outlandish stories that frequently left Michael laughing until his sides ached.

 On the last night, they'd all gone out to eat in some fancy restaurant and packed themselves full of all the roast lamb they could hold. Everyone had said their basic goodbyes, mumbled a little about the next games, and that was that.

Then Ryan had walked with Michael along the narrow, moonlit streets leading back to the Village, swaying from the wine he'd drunk at dinner. Ryan had walked Michael all the way to the door of his room, and then he had just stood there and looked at him for the longest time.

"We're friends forever," Michael had drunkenly informed him, leaning against the frame of the door so that he could extend his other hand for a high-five.

Then Ryan had stepped closer, closer. . . and kissed him, pressing those soft lips against Michael's, and he'd tasted like chlorine and oranges and bubblegum.

Michael had allowed that, had even allowed the small groan that escaped Ryan's lips, but when his hands tried snaking up under Michael's shirt, things got nipped in the bud.

"I'm saving myself," He'd insisted, and blushed when Ryan laughed.

"For what? Dudes don't get married." Ryan had said, and tried to kiss his neck. Michael had almost let it happen.

Then he forced himself to pull back, "I promised my mom."

"Well. . . we can do other stuff. . ."

Michael shook his head, "No. We just met." Then he'd turned his back and swiped his keycard and gone in his room, "Goodnight."

Once he was alone inside though, he couldn't sleep. He'd stayed up all night, reliving every second of the kiss in his head, analyzing it on repeat for signs of deception. But he could find no real fault to Ryan's actions, could sense no underlying motive, and so he was still sitting there thinking when the sun rose again and room service called to wake him.

He was young, then, and it had been hard to resist the charms of Ryan Lochte. That was really where the trouble started, see, with a lack-of-resistance on Michael's part. He was well aware of it, but there seemed to be no solution to the problem.

Except distance.

Michael went back to his quiet life in Baltimore, training for another four years, and he figured that he would forget about Ryan Lochte. His life was full of counting now, the counting of seconds and strokes and laps, and there just wasn't room for much else.

Then he'd walked onto that world stage that was Beijing and found his whole existence turned upside down by Ryan Lochte once again.

For you see, they were rooming together.

Michael had spent countless hours with Coach Bob, writing out gigantic lists of possible distractions and disasters that were likely to occur in China, but Ryan Lochte sleeping five feet away had never made it onto any of them.

Michael found himself, for the first time in four years, in a position of insecurity again. Instead of swimming his races and coming back to the room to meditate or concentrate or focus or sleep, he found himself rushing back there just to be congratulated by Ryan, who always had something different to say about Michael's latest race.

Who always had something different to say about Michael.

"You're so funny," Ryan would tell him right as he was leaving a room, laughing. Just enough to make Michael's heart beat faster, never enough to satisfy him.

Or "You're so fast," He would say admirably when Michael rose up out of the pool. and yeah, everybody said that to Michael, but who else said it the way Ryan Lochte did? Who else could look at Michael and stop time?

Then he found himself getting careless, certainly. Leaning across lane lines to clutch at Ryan's back, reaching out for him in interviews, desperate for that three seconds of blissful, innocent contact. Then back to work, back on the grind.

He won his eighth gold medal and he went back to their room and Ryan was waiting, standing just inside. He pushed Michael back against the door and he kissed him, and it was four years later but he still tasted the same. That was what did Michael in, the familiarity of it. That and something about those blue eyes, maybe.

"Are you through waiting yet?" He'd asked Michael, fingertips brushing along the waistband of his pants.

Michael had to swallow a lump in his throat to speak, ". . .No."

Ryan shrugged then, and Michael envied the easy way he had of accepting things, "Well, that's a shame. Because I was going to suck you off."

Michael closed his eyes and rested his head back against the door. He hoped and prayed and he almost died when he heard the soft thud of Ryan dropping to his knees in front of him.

"This is that other stuff I was talking about. . ." Ryan mumbled against the skin of Michael's inner thigh. It was like Athens done over, if Michael hadn't been such a hopelessly awkward kid, and it was brilliant.

That was when the trouble became a major problem for Michael. Because how the hell was he supposed to concentrate on being the world's greatest swimmer if Ryan Lochte was going to concentrate on using his tongue like that?

So, for a little while, they'd been a bit of a thing. At meets, Michael would find Ryan out back in the parking lot and they would usually kiss, always talk, sometimes fumble around on top of each others clothing.

And Ryan would ask him, right when things got hot, "Are you still waiting?"

And Michael would tell him, "Yes."

Then London happened, and Michael set himself on a course for retirement. Ryan Lochte beat him in a race and afterwards, upstairs in their room, Ryan had a little bit too much to drink to go along with his victory.

"I won. I'm the winner." He'd told Michael, standing there in his boxers looking like he was about to fall over.

"I know."

"You didn't even place!" He laughed, "I'm better than you. This time."

"All the time," Michael had said, hanging his head in his hands. The shame of the race was heavy on his shoulders, but it was alright, he told himself. He'd carried heavier loads.

"I won't be in your shadow anymore. Now I can be me."

"I'm happy for you," Michael said, tears coursing under his hands, where Ryan couldn't see them, "Thrilled."

He was a failure. Didn't Ryan see that he was a failure? That everything he'd worked for was ending?

And then Ryan was falling on top of him, flattening him to the bed and kissing him.

"No," Michael said.

"You're upset." Ryan had slurred, laying his head in the crook of Michael's neck, "And I'm drunk."

So Michael cried about his race, about his loss, and Ryan laid there and felt it all with him.

"I'm happy for you. I am." Michael insisted.

"I know that." Ryan had said, rubbing his hand over Michael's shirt, "Just like I'm sad for you."

He never apologized. It's not like Ryan Lochte to say he's sorry.

So the problem was more of a problem than ever, because for the first time in as long as he could remember, Michael Phelps found himself hopelessly entangled in Ryan Lochte's web again. But this time, there was no counting to distract him, no distance far enough to escape.

A lot of things go unsaid and now, on their last day in London, Michael is standing here with his bag over his shoulder, surveying their little room one last time.

Ryan is still packing, tossing things at random into his bag, and Michael puts a hand on his arm to stop him.

"What?" Ryan asks, and Michael reaches for the crumpled green shirt in his suitcase.

"That's mine."

Ryan frowns, snatching the other end, "No it's not. I bought that back at Nationals, six  years ago." And the way he says 'six years' is like he's spitting in Michael's face.

"I don't care, it's mine." Michael tugs the shirt.

Ryan tugs back.

It happens in the typical fashion of the World's Most Decorated Olympian; quickly.

Michael wraps it, once, rapidly around his fist and reels Ryan in, their lips crashing together roughly. Ryan drops the shirt and his arms go around Michael's neck. They fall back on the bed and Michael's pulse feels like the booming bass in a Lil Wayne song.

His lack-of-resistance is reaching new levels. He allows it when Ryan shoves a hand down the front of his pants and starts jacking him off. He allows it when Ryan moans, like he can't even stand touching Michael, and starts rubbing against his thigh. He even allows it when Ryan tugs their pants off and backs down the bed and between Michael's legs.

Ryan slips one wet finger inside of him and Michael can't come up with the words to remind him to wait. So instead he just moans, lifting his hips up so that Ryan can add another digit.

It's messy at first, but really, that makes it better. The feeling is only mildly pleasurable at first, but when Ryan starts wiggling his fingers, the pleasure heightens and Michael closes his eyes, tipping his head all the way back to force some blood to his brain so he can process what's happening again.

He never says anything, exactly. But he pulls Ryan closer with his legs and Ryan slides into him, more filling than his fingers could ever be. He's careful with Michael, moving slowly at first until Michael is keening under him, begging for a faster tempo. Then Ryan picks the pace up, grunting softly with each thrust, eyes glued to Michael's face like he can't believe what they're doing.

And it must be pretty unbelievable to him, after over a decade of waiting.

"Fuck," Ryan hisses between his teeth, and finally his eyes close as his thrusting gets more frantic. Michael is breathing heavily under him, clutching Ryan's back tightly with white fingers, and he finishes between them, the heat of it slick between their bellies as Ryan's hips start bucking.

He groans as he comes inside Michael, and the sound is something that Michael will never forget. That and Ryan's face, like he's truly blissed.

"Oh my God," Ryan breathes, and his dick is still throbbing inside of Michael.

It's something like intimacy, it's something like the Real Thing. Michael buries his face in Ryan's neck and his heart thuds painfully when he feels the absolute delight of Ryan smiling against his cheek.

Then Michael says, "I decided this is what I was waiting for."  



End file.
